


Children of the War

by orbythesea



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-19
Updated: 2004-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbythesea/pseuds/orbythesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  "She doesn't pretend this thing with Josh, this dark, fragile, impossible thing, she doesn't pretend that it's love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of the War

> _I am the daughter of a great romance  
>  And they are the children of the war.  
> _-Dar Williams, "After All"

CJ fumbles in her coat pocket for the packet of cigarettes she's taken to carrying. She  
pulls one out and holds it between her slender fingers, not lighting it. She rarely  
smokes, but she likes the way the cigarette looks in her hand.

Three years ago, she spent a week with her brothers cleaning out her father's house,  
sorting things into piles of keep, donate, throw away. While Adam piled pots and pans into  
a box destined for Good Will and Thom sat on the front porch speaking in a ragged whisper  
to Hogan over the phone, she had climbed up to the attic to sort through the boxes of  
papers and photographs and stuffed animals that hadn't been touched since her mother died  
twenty years before.

She finally cried there, clutching her parents' wedding photo, all faded sepia and her  
mother's hand, pale against her father's arm. He left for Korea the next day, or so the  
story went, then came home to a wife he barely knew and a son he'd never met. It's a story  
that was repeated hundreds of times as she grew up, but what struck her that day in the  
attic wasn't the story so much as her mothers' hand.

Her mother had always seemed to her to be so delicate, so fragile. She'd forgotten how  
much strength those long, careful fingers held. She'd forgotten about the hours spent  
sitting at the kitchen table while her mother wove her hair into a braid, the way she'd  
wake up early every Sunday to knead dough for cinnamon rolls before church.

CJ likes the way a cigarette looks in her hand because she'll never be as pale as her  
mother was, but somehow she thinks that their hands look alike, gently balancing  
Parliaments between two fingers. She lights the cigarette, finally, leaning against the  
hood of her car, and she draws the smoke deep into her belly before releasing it to the  
heavens in a tight stream.

She feels the familiar vibration of her phone against her hip-- silenced, today, but never  
turned off. It's been six years since she's been needed so urgently that she could never  
go anywhere without being tethered to the rest of the world, but old habits die hard.

She answers it reluctantly as it vibrates again, and his voice is in her ear before she  
can say hello.

"I've been worried about you," he says and she smiles because it feels good to  
have someone worry about her again.

"I needed a few minutes," she answers, and her voice sounds distant, even to  
her.

"You took a few hours," Josh points out, and she has nothing to say to that.

"My mother had the palest hands," she tells him and takes his silence as  
understanding. "I'll be home soon," she says, and closes the phone without  
saying goodbye.

She doesn't pretend this thing with Josh, this dark, fragile, impossible thing, she  
doesn't pretend that it's love. Sometimes she wonders if her mother didn't have the right  
idea, marrying a man she barely knew and letting time turn affection into something  
lasting. But Josh knows what she means when she talks about her mother's hands, and she's  
come to expect that sometimes his moods will turn so black even Toby would shy away. So  
maybe this thing, this delicate thing that's not love, maybe somehow it can grow into  
something else. He knows that on days like this she just needs to be alone and she  
understands why he insisted on buying a piano last October even though he never touches  
it, so maybe that's something.

Neither of them was looking for this, and when they woke up together the first morning  
they agreed that when it stopped working they'd walk away. She thought he'd be gone by the  
end of the week, but it's been almost nine months now, and neither of them has left. They  
hardly know each other, but he knows that she likes how pale her skin looks in the  
moonlight and she knows that sometimes he needs to sit in the dark and cry over Ave Maria.

Thom asked last week, as Josh handed her the phone, how long he'd been living with her. In  
truth, it hadn't occurred to her that he was. He is, of course, but somehow she never  
noticed his shampoo in the bathroom or his suits next to hers in the closet. So maybe it  
makes sense then, that she doesn't think to mention him when she calls Toby and that her  
name never comes up when he talks to Donna.

It's been almost nine months now, and she thinks sometimes that he doesn't know her at  
all. Tonight, though, his fingers will be slow and careful, tracing the invisible scars  
that lay just beneath her skin. He barely knows her, but when she can't bear it any  
longer, she'll flatten her palm against his left side and he'll know he's pushed her as far as  
she can go. She can't explain how he knows this about her even though he still can't  
remember that she likes her eggs over medium, and so they have this thing.

They have this thing-- she's hesitant to call it a relationship-- they have this imperfect  
thing, and she doesn't know where it started or how it will end. She doesn't know his  
favorite color or how old he was when he learned to ride a bike, but somehow it doesn't  
matter to her. She chuckles against the wind and flicks her cigarette away, sliding behind  
the steering wheel. Her hands are pale and delicate in the moonlight and she smiles.  



End file.
